(He knows, and she knows that he knows: the way he grins sometimes when he catches her snarling and biting back, getting too protective. He is acutely aware of it, of how much she relies on him. Perhaps he doesn’t need her as much as she thinks—in her head, they are solid, more of one single entity than two people. Francis-and-Eli, always liked even when they are not using words, instead of Francis, Eli.
“You don’t need me, you know,” he shrugs one day: it isn’t a suggestion, just a statement. “I’m not all that great.”
She goes very quiet for a while).
“I spent a great deal of my life being ignored. I was always very happy that way. Being ignored is a great privilege. That is how I think I learnt to see what others do not see and to react to situations differently. I simply looked at the world, not really prepared for anything.” —Saul Leiter
(gallery)
(via youlooksick)
AnOther Magazine Spring/Summer 2011 | Ph: Lina Scheynius
(via youlooksick)
cotphotoblog:
Brows by Bruce Davidson
This was Davidson’s 1959 project of a Brooklyn teenage gang who called themselves The Jokers.
(Source: she-dances-alone)
RUN DEVIL RUN
(a mix for peg, also known as that one pup that sung that one song and was inevitably piss drunk at the time and now uses her spare time being the absolute worst person ever because i’m a jank hoe, you have all been warned etc)
(i) MOON • LITTLE PEOPLE
(ii) EYES ON FIRE (ARIEL REMIX) • BLUE FOUNDATION
(iii) SOMETHING TO SAY • MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD
(iv) SEVEN NATION ARMY (GLITCH MOB REMIX) • WHITE STRIPES
(v) DLZ • TV ON THE RADIO
(vi) O (ADRIAN LUX REMIX) • IAMAMIWHOAMI
(vii) SAIL • AWOLNATION
(viii) CRAVE YOU (ADVENTURE CLUB REMIX) • FLIGHT FACILITIES
(ix) NO LIGHT, NO LIGHT (BREAKAGE REMIX) • FLORENCE + THE MACHINE
(x) A/B MACHINES • SLEIGH BELLS
“Ever considered the fact that you might just want me all to yourself?” He’s all cocky half-grins and emanating this psuedo self assured bullshit, now. Thinks he’s something because he’s got a girl that isn’t her.
(But don’t be silly, darling, you were more his little stray cat than his girl—)
Francis sees them, sometimes, glances out the dirt-smeared window when he’s up and ready, taking the stairs instead of her preferred exit maneuver of shimmying down the drainpipe. She looks like a porcelain doll, all tumbling dark hair and tight-lipped smiles, the kind of posture that people make an effort at. Straight back and lean shoulders as opposed to her own skinny, insolent slouch.
“I’m your best friend. Don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t help that I’m such a saint!” She says it an octave higher than she means to, in the’oh, golly!’tone reserved for Taylor Swift winning an award and princesses on Disney cartoons. She laughs from deep in the back of her throat, before pausing. Narrowing her eyes whilst he pulls himself up on the counter, blinks back at her, and then—
“Still could’a told me first, though,” Francis coughs out a moment later, clenching her jaw as soon as the words are out. She doesn’t come back that night.
